


In gold and crimson

by most_curiously_blue_eyes



Series: The peculiar behaviours of Valar and Maiar in their natural habitat [2]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Melkor, Cock Rings, Dom/sub Undertones, Double Anal Penetration, Dubious Consent, M/M, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Punishment Sex, Threesome - M/M/M, and lots of other things, jealous Maiar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-06-08 20:36:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6872470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/most_curiously_blue_eyes/pseuds/most_curiously_blue_eyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the Valar, the concept of jealousy is rather foreign since their comprehension of the world is more abstract than even that of the Maiar. Melkor, however, learns very intimately the meaning of jealousy when Mairon and Eönwë decide to punish him for being too easily swept away by desires of the flesh.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In gold and crimson

**Author's Note:**

> This is nothing but self-indulgent porn okay. Read if you want porn. If you don't want porn, don't read. Yes. 
> 
> Anyway. This scene takes place long after the main story, and not long after Feanor's apprenticeship in Almaren which I will definitely write about later. Because that will also be mostly porn. I mean come on everyone's got a boner for Feanor. In this universe, this is what translates to porn.

Eönwë's long nimble fingers flutter along the sharp line of golden ink on cool white skin. His fingertips lightly trace the outline, smearing the ink, distorting the shape, leaving a glittery trail across Melkor's broad chest; a sigh of wonderment escapes his lips when the dark Vala shivers beneath him and the flickering candlelight is reflected in a myriad of shimmering sparkles on the gold-stained skin. Chained to the wall behind the headboard, arched uncomfortably behind his head, Melkor's arms too are covered in golden lines, blurred where Eönwë's hands lay gentle caresses but still recognizable as script: rounded letters painted on the pale canvas of flesh by a hand well-trained and sure in the art, with curves so elegant and lusciously lavish that the words formed with them are barely legible as more than abstract shapes.

Yet two words they spell and two words only, repeated over and over, meaningful ones:

_Precious_ , say the thickest letters written on Melkor's chest above where his heart would be had Ainur had need of hearts, in bold strokes of a brush with a rounded tip. The last of the symbols is elongated and ends with a delicate swirl which aligns perfectly with the other of the two words, _Mine_. The claim is also painted again and again on the dark Vala's side and on his hip, and on the inside of his thigh, thin lines and smeared blots of gold ink, or else real molten gold carefully and skilfully blended into the skin by a master craftsman.

Eönwë traces the letters on the dark Vala's hip with his fingers and scrapes off the layer of ink with sharp talons as if to test how deep it runs; the resulting breathy moan, he silences with his lips on Melkor's. There is gold on Melkor's lips as well and Eönwë laps at it, runs his tongue over Melkor's lower lip, tastes the bitter-sweet flavour of the paint. He draws back when the dark Vala attempts to kiss back, and he leans in to whisper,

'This is your punishment, beloved,' and he licks the delicate flesh below Melkor's ear.

'Yet I have not – ah!... I have not yet been informed,' the dark Vala protests, bites his lower lip, breathes in sharply when Eönwë eagerly maps the expanse of skin on his neck. 'I know not – what it is I am being punished for,' he finishes and groans as the ashen-haired Maia drags sharp fingernails down his side.

'Lies will get you nowhere,' says Eönwë slowly.

'He lies not,' mutters Mairon from where he is lounging sprawled on the bed an arm's reach away from his two lovers. Of the three of them, he is the only one still fully clothed, but his tunic is dishevelled and his hair is tousled from before: Eönwë's masterful handiwork. The tips of his fingers are stained with gold, there is gold also under his eyes and lower, running in finger-painted lines from his jaw, down his neck, to finally disappear beneath the fabric of his linen tunic. The brush with a rounded tip lies abandoned on the floor somewhere, forgotten now that the markings on Melkor's skin are done.

'He lies not,' Mairon repeats softly, 'he truly does not understand how he deserves punishment,' there is a hint of amusement in his voice, deepened by arousal and sweet on the ears like thick honey.

Eönwë laughs, looks down at Melkor in mocking disbelief which on him seems gentle somehow whereas on everyone else it might have been contemptuous. He dips his head to catch Melkor's upper lip between his teeth, he tugs on it lightly, then licks his own lips, enjoying how his tongue teases but an echo of a caress on the dark Vala's skin.

'Oh, may it be that you find no fault in your behaviour?...' He asks, drawling out the consonants in a manner reminiscent of how Melkor speaks when in a seductive mood. He lifts a hand to press a taloned finger to the softness of the dark Vala's lips, breathes a chuckle when Melkor frowns.

'Let me remind you, then, o dark one,' he whispers and then, in an even lower voice, sinfully sweet like a lover's longing call, he invokes a name, _Fëanáro_.

Realization dawns in Melkor's eyes; his pupils dilate when he recognizes the name, when memory matches it to a strikingly beautiful form and to a spirit that burns so hot that all else appears as mere folly by comparison. One of the Firstborn, but more, so much more, brimming with talent and creativity and passion and – aflame with an intensity worthy of even a Vala's appreciation and favour.

'Jealousy is a foreign concept to the Valar, is it not?' Asks Mairon softly, feigning innocence. The fire dancing in his golden eyes reveals the deceit: there is a wickedness behind the facade, a cruelty of sorts, hidden from all but his bonded lovers who both know him to the last shreds of his being. A danger lies there, a risk of unspeakable doom, a potential of conflagration lest the great fire of his spirit is left unattended; untamed, unbidden, the embers of madness would easily turn into flames of darkest insanity capable of devouring the world and all of its protectors: yet for now, at least, that side of Mairon's nature lies dormant under the gentle caresses of those he loves with his entire being.

Breathlessly, mirthfully, he laughs.

'Yet to us, o precious Lord of Chaos, to us lower beings, jealousy... is very real,' he says smoothly in a whisper that barely holds enough substance to be heard. Less than a sigh, less even than a huff of breath against skin: the words he speaks are lost as soon as they leave his sinfully sensual lips.

But Melkor hears him, and he averts his eyes as if he wants to be ashamed but knows not how.

Eönwë places a gentle kiss on the dark Vala's forehead as though to appease him through the softness of the touch. At the same time, his deadly talons cut into the flesh of Melkor's thigh where the skin is unmarked of yet with golden scripture, and they sink in deeply enough to draw dark thick blood but not to cause any lasting damage. Pain is... easier, more familiar to process, to translate into a reaction of the physical body than abstract feelings; Melkor's moan is breathless and laced with an underlying desire for – more: more gentle touches and more fluttering caresses, more demanding kisses and more punishing wounds. More stimuli. More; like he cannot differentiate pain from pleasure, the dark Vala begs for Eönwë to hurt him again with an anguished, lovely sound of submission.

Eönwë laughs and draws back once more. He allows Mairon to pull him into a loose embrace as he sits back to admire the sight Melkor makes sprawled for only them to see: bare and shackled, a willing prisoner to their lusts, gold letters inscribed onto his body laying claim to his possession. At the mercy of his bonded lovers, he can do naught but suffer the punishment they decide to bestow upon him for faults real and made up, for sins committed and imagined alike; and his entire gold-covered form trembles with anticipation of what is to come.

As though forgetting all about Melkor's existence, Eönwë turns his attentions to Mairon; with steady hands he removes the rich silks of Mairon's robes, with nimble fingers he draws elaborate designs of golden ink on the dark skin of Mairon's arms and chest, connecting the countless freckles on Mairon's body into abstract shapes in glorious celebration of his lover's nudity. Under the pads of his fingertips, the constellations on Mairon's skin give birth to declarations of eternal devotion in a language that has never existed in truly tangible form: the language of souls brought together by fate or by mere coincidence in a time before time existed at all. Patterns of smeared ink on dark brown skin are given meaning reflected not with words but with fleeting looks and lips brushing against lips.

This, Eönwë thinks, this is what it means to truly _be_.

He denies Mairon another kiss, draws back from sensual lips chasing the taste of his own; not out of spite but of a sense of higher purpose which he is reminded of when Melkor's deep groan caresses his ears with the hoarse, breathy notes more lovely than any other sound he could imagine. Where Mairon's voice is a seduction and a promise, Melkor's is – lust of the body and desire of the spirit, a beginning, a catalyst to set in motion a fantasy so magnificent it can barely be embraced by the mind. Destruction and creation, death and rebirth, a melody of forces opposite yet complementary: all of that and so much more, enchanted within the low timbre of Melkor's voice much like an insect trapped for all eternity inside a tear-shaped piece of amber.

Eönwë kisses him, swallowing the plea for mercy which he finds on the dark Vala's lips; ruthlessly, mercilessly he takes and tastes and explores with his tongue and with his teeth. Like a night in Winter, Melkor tastes of frozen air and of falling snow; but his skin warms under the touch his lovers bestow upon him, under the fleeting caresses of fingertips smudging the glittering gold ink over his body of flesh.

'Beautiful,' Eönwë whispers, leaning back to admire the work of art that is Melkor's body, bound and stained to look as though a vision of perfection sculpted in pure gold. Like this: adorned with words in cursive that barely remain legible as words at all, captive to his own desire and that of his lovers', the dark Vala is at his most glorious.

' _Fuck him_ ,' Mairon whispers urgently, unable to draw his gaze away from Eönwë's hands as they map the pale plains of Melkor's body in a slow and gentle caress. Eönwë laughs at the request, not mocking but amused at the impatience of the fiery Maia. He nevertheless nudges Melkor's legs open, watches as they part willingly under but a finest push. The dark Vala moans a drawn-out version of Eönwë's name, hoping doubtlessly to make him lose himself to the urges of the flesh. But no. Eönwë's touch is still as gentle and fleeting when he traces the chiselled lines of Melkor's body from his jaw, across his chest and abdomen, down to his hips.

He chuckles when he hears how the dark Vala's breath hitches, he outright laughs when Melkor groans in shameless disappointment as the caresses move back up instead of going lower.

'Impatient,' he murmurs, 'yet this is punishment, beloved; surely you do not expect me to deliver pleasure whereas I intend to show you how upset you have made us?...'

'You would punish me in the process,' says Mairon in a low voice which caresses the senses. 'But alas, I think I have an idea which will solve this dilemma.'

He is quick to act. Rummaging through the chest which stands by the bedside, Mairon mutters soft curses under his breath as the object he is looking for appears to elude him. Finally, however, he lets out an exclamation of triumph and he returns to the bed. He hands his find to Eönwë who takes it curiously.

It is a ring, a band of gold simple in design, but larger in diameter than usual. When Eönwë holds it, he can feel it thrumming with an enchantment, but he is unable to recognize the nature of the spell which is infused into the trinket. It is no secret that of all spirits of Arda, Mairon has the most prowess in sorcery; even the elaborate incantations of Olórin cannot equal to the artistry and skill of Mairon in terms of weaving enchantments.

The gold ring in Eönwë's hand is doubtlessly yet another of Mairon's masterpieces. Its use, however, is yet a mystery to Eönwë; at least until Mairon gently directs his hand between Melkor's spread thighs.

'Oh, you cunning heathen,' Eönwë breathes in exhilaration, for once letting slip his mask of stern seriousness, 'what would your master say had he know what use you have for his forge!'

'He would ask that I made a ring of the same kind for him that he could put on Lord Manwe,' replies Mairon smoothly, laughing at Eönwë's scandalized expression when the King of Arda is mentioned in such a context. 'Be at peace, my love: nobody has seen me make it save for the fires of the forge late in the night. Now will you secure the ring in its due place or would you rather have me do it instead?...'

Melkor, who has been straining to hear the exchange or to see the object of which the two speak is momentarily distracted when Eönwë draws a lazy line of gold ink mixed with dark blood that is slowly beginning to clot on the wound of the dark Vala's thigh. The distraction serves Eönwë well; he uses the moment when pain-laced pleasure causes Melkor to close his eyes – and he slips the ring past the tip of Melkor's large cock.

'What?...' Asks the dark Vala in confusion. The diameter of the ring is enough that it encircles the hard length as though made to its exact measurements; it snugly hugs the skin as Eönwë pushes it all the way to the base of Melkor's cock. When the band of gold finally rests against the dark Vala's balls, Mairon whispers something – a word, infused with great power: and the metal glows dimly in response. Immediately, Melkor bites down on his lower lip to hold in the scream that threatens to be torn out of him; he writhes against the chains binding him in place, he thrusts with his hips against the empty air as though to meet a caress that never comes.

Eönwë's breath quickens as his own body responds to the display with arousal. Still, he strives to act unmoved and only mildly curious as he asks Mairon, 'What enchantment have you placed on it?'

'The one I set forth now is a simple spell,' the fiery Maia replies conversationally as he idly draws a gold-lined pattern on Eönwë's shoulder. 'Under my command, the ring vibrates, ever changing the pace and rhythm. It is so designed as to drive the wearer to the edge... but never over it.'

It is too easy for Eönwë to kiss Mairon when that wicked-looking smirk grazes his lips. It tastes like mead, that smirk, fine and thick, a remainder of summertime. He enjoys it for a few moments too many before his focus is drawn by the delightful sounds of Melkor's pleasure, by the mesmerizing reflection of candlelight on golden ink and pale skin, flickering, glittering, enticing. He is entranced by the way the dark Vala's lips part for him when he presses his gold-smeared finger against the plump bottom lip; the touch leaves a stain in its wake, turning Melkor's lips even more tempting than before. A work of art, a study in sinful beauty beyond all that can be told through words, the dark Vala contentedly allows for himself to be beautified and admired and punished. From underneath thick eyelashes, he watches Eönwë's movements until – two whispered words from Mairon and Melkor's eyes widen, his hips thrust up, his head falls back-

'I would that you teach me the tricks to your clever device,' Eönwë says, breathless and flushed after watching Melkor nigh come undone from the maddening pulsing sensation inflicted on him by Mairon's wicked craft; and Mairon laughs, just as breathless, and leans in to whisper in his ear. The words – if they are indeed words and not just vowels and consonants randomly strung together to form sounds with no meaning, for they ring foreign to Eönwë – they are easy to repeat but difficult to remember, so under his breath Eönwë repeats one of the spells twice, three times, only at the fourth repeat noting how the incantations make Melkor tremble and sob. The device locked around his pretty cock vibrates nigh-unnoticed and tightens then becomes loose, then tightens again; Mairon licks his lips, looks to Eönwë as though for permission. When he receives it in the form of a nod, the fiery Maia crawls between Melkor's legs and takes the trapped length into his hot mouth.

There are few sights more erotic than Mairon sucking cock, Eönwë thinks as he brushes away strands of Mairon's hair to be able to better admire the view. The fiery Maia's pretty lips look slightly swollen stretched over Melkor's big cock, his face is flushed and his eyes half-closed; he is humming around his mouthful, creating a kind of torturous vibration which has Melkor writhe and beg over and over. Mairon enjoys this: the taste, the feeling of his mouth being filled, but also the sense of power the act gives him. Always, even in what seems like submission, the fiery Maia dominates and has his way, and the way he is able to control Melkor so fully through pleasure arouses him more than were he to have the act performed on himself. But he refrains from touching himself through his iron willpower, and instead he uses the fingers of one hand to massage Melkor's entrance, teasing the ring of muscle without ever breaching it.

'Enough,' Eönwë says, pulls on Mairon's hair, and even though Mairon gives him a dark look, he still obeys the command. He draws back and demands that Eönwë kiss him, a wish which is immediately granted. For a moment the two share Melkor's taste, spurred on by the soft gasps or sobs of the dark Vala who is slowly being driven to insanity by unfulfilled desire; the punishment is harsh on Melkor, so unused to not being immediately gratified whenever he wants something, and were his transgression any lighter, Eönwë might have taken mercy on him by now.

'Gag him, please,' he requests of Mairon who chuckles under his breath and goes to do his bidding.

'Cruelty befits you,' the fiery Maia whispers to Eönwë in appreciation when he is finished with his task; he beholds his handiwork with a small smile, pleased all the more as he sees the tears of frustration caught in Melkor's thick eyelashes like the purest crystals. The dark Vala struggles against the bindings, but there is nothing he can do to release himself, for the spell work Mairon has put into the chains is too complex to undo, tied too intricately to the roots of the fiery Maia's spirit; so all of Melkor's attempts are in vain and serve only to arouse further lust in his bonded lovers. Chance is, the dark Vala knows of it and does it on purpose; Eönwë knows how well Melkor loves to be at their mercy, how he enjoys being helplessly subjected to the pleasures they inflict upon him. His weak protests, his struggles and his pleas are all part of the spectacle for Eönwë and Mairon's benefit; or else, it is for his own enjoyment as much as theirs that Melkor allows himself to be helpless against the assault forced on him. So glorious he is in the throes of maddening passion, so beautifully responsive to all ways in which Eönwë and Mairon can offer him pleasure: so willimg, so sensual, so perfect.

'Undress me,' Eönwë commands of Mairon, licks his lips in a show of impatience. The fiery Maia nods, reaches with his hands – his large, calloused and trembling hands – for the clasps of Eönwë's robes. He works slowly and methodologically, every garment he removes, he neatly folds and discards on the floor at the foot of the bed. Eönwë watches him, motionless for a while, but soon he grows tired of Mairon's steady resolve and, as if to indicate that he better hurry up, he flicks the golden hoop in the fiery Maia's nipple with his fingernail. A shiver courses through Mairon's body at the simple caress and he bites his bottom lip, but he does not try to protect himself when Eönwë does it again, when Eönwë pinches the hoop between his fingers and tugs at it perhaps too harshly. He did it once when the piercing was fresh; he recalls the delicious sound it wrought out of Mairon's mouth, a moan of pain and ecstasy twined so tightly together it was impossible to tell one from the other. Now, the piercing is healed fully, as much a part of Mairon's physical body as the skin it connects to, and tugging at it only produces a lustful groan.

Briefly Eönwë considers tearing the piece of jewellery out of Mairon's flesh; yet the idea is gone as soon as it arose, since it is not Mairon who is being punished tonight, it is not Mairon's sensual suffering that Eönwë craves. So he lets go of the golden hoop and instead pulls Mairon close to himself, enjoys the fiery Maia's heat against his flesh.

'This side of you is enthralling,' Mairon whispers to him, leaning in to press small kisses down his jaw and at the spot just beneath his ear. 'So powerful, so commanding, my Lord Herald,' he murmurs against Eönwë's skin.

'Remain focused,' Eönwë says softly, looks back to Melkor and smiles. 'We still have not yet punished our precious traitor enough; how would you have him?'

Mairon moans softly. 'Together,' he replies in a voice grown raw with desire.

At this Eönwë groans, for the simple word is accompanied in his mind with an onslaught of images which Mairon would see come to pass: and so he nods his assent and turns to Melkor, whose entire body is as though thrumming with a plea for attention. The gold ink is in places smeared and blurry, but still legible as the claim of possession, and Eönwë kisses the skin underneath the ink lovingly.

'Soon, beloved,' he promises to Melkor, 'soon we will grant you the release your body is begging for,' he says and roughly pulls Melkor to lie on his side. He lays himself beside him, kisses his jaw lovingly.

'Can you take us both at once, beloved?' He asks, teasing the tip of Melkor's ear with his tongue. The dark Vala's eyes widen and he frantically shakes his head, eliciting but a chuckle from Eönwë. 'Of course you can, my love; and you will,' he murmurs, allowing his hand to wander down Melkor's pale gold-smeared chest.

Mairon crawls behind Melkor, begins to stroke his side as he lays so close to the dark Vala, his hard cock brushes against Melkor's buttocks. The fiery Maia groans breathlessly and rubs himself against Melkor's skin; Eönwë does the same where he is facing Melkor, he rubs himself against the dark Vala's thigh, drawing out a long moan in the process. He uses one arm to nudge Melkor's legs open, to hold one of his long legs up as Mairon slips a finger past Melkor's opening, slides it in and out, in and out again. The dark Vala adjusts easily to just one finger, his breathing turns erratic from the sensation, a moan escapes him to be muffled by the gag.

Mairon removes the finger, foregoes all further preparation as he positions himself and enters him with a swift motion of his hips. Buried inside Melkor to the hilt, Mairon takes hold of the dark Vala's thigh, holds his leg up while Eönwë presses his own ink-stained finger into Melkor's already stretched hole despite Melkor's weak struggling so easily subdued by Mairon's hold on him.

'You take it so pretty,' Eönwë whispers to Melkor, crooks the finger inside of him and earns twin groans from both the dark Vala and Mairon. He licks his lips and inserts another finger, massages at the inner walls of Melkor's hole before he takes the fingers out, slips them in again, repeats the motion again and again.

'Eönwë, please,' Mairon whimpers, all this time forced to stay completely still, sheathed inside that tight warmth.

Finally Eönwë grows impatient with the teasing; he positions himself and slowly, he pushes inside of Melkor, inch by inch, groaning when the nigh-unbearable tightness engulfs him. He feels the ring of muscle clench around two cocks inside, he hears Melkor's muffled sobs and Mairon's hitched breathing. With a moan he buries himself fully inside of Melkor's body and lays still, allowing the dark Vala a moment to adjust to the feeling of being so completely filled.

'By the Void,' Mairon mutters and bites down on Melkor's shoulder, then licks at where his sharp teeth have broken skin. 'I will not... last long,' he warns.

Eönwë licks his lips and nods, rendered speechless, mind hazy with a nigh-feverish kind of pleasure. His fingers grasp at Melkor's thigh, leaving bruises on the soft skin; with his other hand, he impatiently removes the gag and moans when Melkor meets him halfway to share a heated, messy kiss. The dark Vala's eyes are squeezed shut and when Eönwë experimentally thrusts his hips, Melkor bites down on Eönwë's tongue as though in retaliation. But not a moment later, he squirms and moves his hips as well, a clear sign that he is ready for more; Eönwë looks above above him to Mairon, who meets his gaze with a wanton expression, eyes like an inferno of liquidized flames.

Together they begin to thrust, a slow, careful rhythm which nonetheless is almost too much; Melkor is so tight around them, and the sensation of sliding against one another is so new and so _wonderful_ and Eönwë kisses Melkor again, mimics the thrusts of his hips with the movement of his tongue, takes and demands and receives-

'Please, please,' Mairon moans into the skin at the nape of Melkor's neck, voice breaking, and Eönwë groans a reply into Melkor's mouth; a thrust, one more and again, and Melkor's entire body is trembling when at last his lovers find release inside of him.

The dark Vala's sob sounds almost pitiful when first Mairon, then Eönwë draw back from him, leaving him stretched, empty and yet still unfulfilled. His cock is yet trapped within Mairon's wicked device, painfully hard and leaking precome; he is no longer unable to stop himself from crying, from begging shamelessly, and finally Eönwë and Mairon take mercy on him:

Both descend upon him and begin to lap at his pretty cock, and Mairon whispers a spell which at once dissolves the contraption; after this, it takes precious little effort before Melkor comes harder than he could have thought possible, before his release shoots up onto Mairon's face and into Eönwë's willing mouth.

Afterwards, Eönwë helps Mairon clean up and then undo the bindings on Melkor's spent body, he massages the dark Vala's tired arms and shoulders to ease the discomfort that comes once Melkor is freed from the position he was forced to spend so much time in. He murmurs soft enchantments to soothe the dark Vala's pain, spells he knows Mairon is no good at even despite his magnificent craft; and Melkor purrs as he is so pampered, still barely coherent, too exhausted from the force of his release to attempt moving.

'Have you learned your lesson, o dark one?' Asks Mairon as he begins to stroke Melkor's hair at the nape of his neck. He smiles when the dark Vala leans into the caress with a pleased sigh.

'I think we shall have to ask that on the morrow, for already the mightiest of the Valar is falling asleep on us,' says Eönwë and gently urges Melkor to lie on his back. Like this, both he and Mairon can snuggle up to the dark Vala's sides, to wrap their arms around his gold-covered form.

'M not asleep,' Melkor protests in a hoarse voice, then, 'Will have to make you jealous more often...'

Mairon laughs and nips him playfully on the collarbone. Eönwë blows in his ear.

'I would rather you refrained,' he says semi-seriously.

'I can consider it,' the dark Vala promises in a mumble right before he falls asleep.

And even though the unhealthy jealousy may not be truly erased from their minds and souls, the two Maiar soon follow him to the land of dreams. There will be time later to deal with the residual grudges the beautiful Noldorin blacksmith apprentice left behind. Melkor is theirs. They have marked him in gold and crimson, and he is theirs alone.

And they are his in turn.

 

**Author's Note:**

> One of these days I will have to write something that makes sense. But no promises.


End file.
